


Overthinking, Overanalyzing

by unrealityshift



Series: Swing on the Spiral [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Anxiety Disorder, Dermatillomania, Gen, Insomnia, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mild Sexual Content, Trans Character, Trichotillomania, bad habits, implied ot4 - Freeform, mention of gender dysphoria
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-13
Updated: 2018-08-13
Packaged: 2019-06-27 01:37:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15675411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unrealityshift/pseuds/unrealityshift
Summary: Sometimes, Prompto has problems sleeping for completely valid reasons.Most of the time, Prompto has problems sleeping for entirely no reason at all, except for being a notorious overthinker with anxiety.





	Overthinking, Overanalyzing

**Author's Note:**

> WOW, okay. I meant to write something much sooner. I meant to write a whump fic (a completely different project than this!!) but my muses got away from me and i got scared so i uh, accidentally didn't write anything til write now and it's a bit of a vent fic. more like, let's see how much i can project onto prompto before it gets ridiculous!!
> 
> warning for mentions of uh, self harm i guess you could call it? but not in the tradition sense--hair pulling (of pubic hair, specifically), skin picking. prompto canonically bites his nails (look at his character model dudes, it's THAT detailed) and i'm pretty sure he bits his lip too so uh, what's more bad habits!!
> 
> and yes, prompto is trans in this, and there are references to gladio also being trans. talk to me about my lgbt ffxv headcanons, i have lots of em.

On some nights, sleep eluded Prompto. Sometimes, it was for valid, concrete reasons--a hunt gone wrong earlier on in the day, rare evenings in which the caffeine he’d consumed actually had an effect on him, lazy days where the energy bubbling beneath his skin never got a proper outlet. Those types of sleepless nights, however, were far and few between. More often than not, Prompto’s bouts of insomnia were induced by the anxiety he’d dealt with all of his life. Generalized and aimless--and often without an identifiable trigger--his anxiety buzzed around in his brain until he managed to drift into a restless sleep that left him groggy, slightly unfocused, and a bit irritable the next day, or until he got up and made himself do something with the nervous energy.

 

Tonight, he realized, was one of those nights. As sleep tugged relentlessly on his drooping eyes, his mind was electric and bouncing formless thoughts around without reprieve. They were so quick that Prompto couldn’t figure out what each thought really was before he was pulled to the next, heart thumping erratically in his chest as he tried cycling through various quiet calming techniques he’d picked up along the way. Square breathing? No thanks, kind of hard when air couldn’t make its way into his lungs, deep pulls seemingly impossible from the balloon that already felt lodged in his sternum. Counting? What the hell was that supposed to do for him if his mind kept flitting off in another direction? 

 

_ What else was there? _ He thought to himself as he worried a loose thread on the edge of his sleeping bag. There were a ton he was forgetting, he knew. Hard to focus on relaxation techniques while he was trying to curb a late night panic attack. Man, when was the last time he got one of those? Thinking back on it, it was probably a few weeks ago after a particularly long day in Leide. Was that when Noct almost got gored by that Bandersnatch? Or was it when he himself succumbed to a mild case of heat stroke? Wait, wasn’t that the same day? They were low on curatives because somehow they’d managed to forget--or wait wasn’t it because of low funds--or was it because it was his responsibility to remember and he forgot and--

 

The nail of Prompto’s index finger caught underneath his thumbnail, the pinching sensation jolting him back to the present. Right. Avoiding a panic attack. Laying stiffly in his sleeping bag, (that was steadily growing too warm, mind you) wasn’t doing him any favours. The steady breathing of his companions was, oddly enough, stressing him out even more--a reminder that he should be asleep by now, not awake and fretting about what exactly? Having restless, aimless thoughts that he couldn’t even pinpoint? The gunner sighed through his nose and quietly sat up. If he couldn’t relax in here, there was no point of stewing in his nervous energy while the others were trying to catch some shut-eye. Ignis had like, a sixth sense about that kind of stuff. It was as if his anxiety had an aura or something and the advisor was always quick to pick up on it, like the energy was tangible or something only he could see.

 

That, and Iggy was a light sleeper. Prompto’s nerves felt like a beacon, a high-power LED lantern bouncing its rays around the inside of their tent screaming for attention. Right, yup, none of that. As silently as possible, Prompto wiggled his way out of his sleeping bag and slipped out of the tent, the zipper sounding like a gunshot in the otherwise silent Duscaen night. A quick glance over his shoulder denied his suspicions. The three other men in the tent remained soundly asleep--Ignis, dead to the world; Gladio, sawing logs; Noctis, a heat-seeking cuddle monster burrowed into Gladio’s side. Their own personal space heater. That had the corners of Prompto’s lips twitching upwards. At least his friends were alright.

 

Nights in Duscae were either unbearably muggy, or frigid with underlying humidity from the Slough. Tonight, it was closer to the latter. Prompto debated on pulling a jacket out of the Armiger before remembering the only jacket he personally had with him was a thick one more suited for somewhere tundra-like. Why he had that packed with him, he didn’t know. Ignis had harped on preparedness when they were packing for the road trip initially, and apparently that translated into “be prepared for everything” in Prompto’s mind. Like snow in the middle of summer. Because that was a thing that happened. Well, at least the jacket had come in handy when they’d snuck into that weird cave behind the waterfall. For once, he’d been the best prepared in the group. The smug sense of satisfaction he’d felt when his partners realized that, yes, he actually did own something with sleeves, was something he kept in the back of his mind for a rainy day. Or, really, on days when his stupid mistakes felt like grievous, unforgivable mistakes, like when--

 

Prompto shook his head, pulling himself off of that train of thought. His thoughts were getting away from him again.

 

The moon was high in the sky, stars twinkling above. Prompto sat at the edge of the haven, the heels of his feet knocking against the firm stone and hands loosely draped in his lap. At least the countryside offered a nice view of the night sky free of light pollution, something he didn’t get in Insomnia.

 

Insomnia.  _ Insomnia. _

 

He hadn’t thought of their old home in a while. Hard to, when day in and day out he was fighting for his life. Literally. Every day was a struggle but with the others? It was manageable. Insomnia’s fate was well, dubious at best, but being by his partners gave him something to fight for, even if taking back and restoring city he still found himself calling home seemed like an unattainable future. One day at a time, that was his new mantra and he was doing his best to stand by it and keep himself above the water, metaphorically speaking.

 

That isn’t to say he didn’t have his bad habits, which, oddly enough, were the most reliable coping mechanisms he had. Even if they were less than ideal. In his defense, the others had their bad habits. Noctis would withdraw, sleep excessively. Gladio worked out to the point of collapse, and Prompto had witnessed him tugging at the shaved parts of his head on at least two separate incidents. Ignis stress baked (which would be good fun and all, if it didn’t result in the advisor holing himself up in whatever kitchen he could find and working for hours on end until every surface was covered in baked goods and then some) and on particularly rough days, Prompto saw the advisor’s finely manicured nails idly picking at dead skin and blemishes along his cheek and jaw. However, even combined, they had nothing on Prompto. Sometimes, the gunner wished he could go back in time to when he was on the roof of that motel in Old Lestallum with Noct and tack on an addendum to his speech of self-loathing and insecurity to end all speeches on self-loathing and insecurity.  _ Did I say I was a mess of hang-ups? Well yeah, there’s that, but I’m also a pretty awful amalgamation of disgusting habits. Think Iggy would be impressed with that vocabulary, haha? _

 

Even on his good days, the bad habits--the quirks, the tics--were present. His mangled fingernails were a testament to that, as was the reddened seam of his lower lip which was also in tatters from constant chewing. His back was a wasteland of acne scars and scabs. His scalp had a fair share of small sores from his idle, destructive fingers. Even something as simple as changing his clothes was embarrassing--not just for the mess his back was, but for the patchy thatch of hair between his legs. That, by far, was probably his most shameful habit, but one he couldn’t seem to kick even with all the alternatives he’d been offered. When his guard was down and his mind wandered, he couldn’t seem to keep his hand from wandering to the waistband of his pants or underwear to tug at the pubic hair hidden beneath. He’d been reprimanded enough to know better, but all that seemed to do for his psyche was make him want to tug at the hair more. He didn’t even know why he did it, why he felt the need to do it. Once he’d started, he couldn’t seem to stop, much like with his other habits. No amount of shame or guilt--or good intentioned redirectioning from his lovers--seemed to be able to stop or change that.

 

The buzzing in his mind dulled and came into focus in his fingertips, the anxious energy bouncing from one place to another. Absentmindedly, he found his fingers slipping beneath the hem of his sleep shirt (an old undershirt pilfered from Ignis) and picking at newer blemishes present on the back of his ribcage. Whether it was from a shift in diet or hormones, or strained hygienic habits, Prompto didn’t know.

 

Following that train of thought, another thing in particular that sucked was maintaining basic hygiene when they couldn’t make it to a motel or caravan for one reason or the other--whether it was lost time from the myriad tasks they’d planned for the day or simply being too far out in the middle of nowhere to bother making the journey. For Prompto, it sucked twice as bad because of his binder. No matter where they went, his skin always became tacky and the smooth fabric adhered to him like glue--whether the hot Leiden sun made him sweat in excess, the humidity in Duscae clung to him like a second skin, or the air in Cleigne that ranged from swampy to muggy depending on where they were in the region made their clothes damp and heavy. He definitely had more in the complaint department than the others, much to their disdain. At least once, Gladio had recommended he just forgo the binder all together. Gladio’s heart was in the right place--didn’t want Prompto to be uncomfortable, didn’t want Prompto to be binding for more than the recommended amount of time--but Prompto’s dysphoria wouldn’t budge on the matter, even with Gladio’s history of personal experience (though it had been a good few years since Gladio had even bothered with a binder, thanks to testosterone and top surgery). Some days were easier than others, and on those days, Prompto relished in the mental ability to lounge around with his partners without judgement for his unbound chest. However, those indulgences only happened privately, as the decision to not bind in public was one Prompto still shied from despite constant reassurance from those most important to him. Sure, they knew he was a man, he knew he was a man, and he was confident in his gender identity and presentation, but that little voice in the back of his mind that screamed for validation would always ask “ _ but what about everyone else? _ ”.

 

_ Okay cool, mini gender dysphoria meltdown, that’s nice, _ Prompto cringed as he smoothed the flat of his hand over his back in search of more problem areas. But that’s all it was--a small meltdown, completely internalized. Prompto really didn’t have too many issues anymore with regards to his body and his gender. On nights like this, however, even resolved issues were still issues that demanded attention. His other hand drifted to his lower lip, index and thumbnail working in tandem to work a patch of dry skin there loose.

 

_ Man, I’m really gonna regret not getting to sleep sooner _ . Prompto thought bitterly as his tongue slipped out to soothe the pain he’d pulled out of his lip, the metallic taste of blood beading up. Pulling his hand away, he sucked his lower lip into his mouth to further ease the sting his fingers had caused. He pulled his phone out of the pocket in his pajama pants to check the time. 2 AM. Ignis would be awake in a few hours for his morning stretches and breakfast preparation, followed by Gladio less than an hour later for his morning run. He’d probably shake Prompto awake with the promise of a good workout and an amicable running partner and Prompto hated to pass up on any opportunity to spend alone time with any of his lovers, even if it was just for a run in which conversation was saved for brief breaks along the trail. He should’ve been asleep at least three hours ago.

 

“Great…” In the quiet, damp, way-too-early-to-be-considered-morning air, Prompto’s exhalation felt as loud as unzipping the tent earlier had. He was a good twenty or so feet away from the tent, so his whisper-hush of a voice wasn’t too much of a volume concern to him. He’d felt no more relaxed when he left the tent upward of half an hour ago than he did now. His thoughts were still ricocheting noisily around his brain and what little fuzz of sleep that had surrounded him before was gone and replaced with the next to fidget and pluck and pick.  _ Dropped the ball on this one, dumbass, _ he scolded himself. The hand that had pocketed his phone was slipping beneath the waistband of his pajama pants before he even realized it and, what the hell, what did he have to lose, really. Everyone else was asleep so no one could scold him for his busy hands as his forefinger and thumb closed in around a particularly wiry strand of pubic hair. It couldn’t have been more than five minutes with one hand still picking absently at the blemished skin of his back and the other busy at work tugging at unruly body hair before he heard it.

 

“Prompto? Darling?”

 

Guiltily, the gunner jerked his hand out from underneath the waistband of his pants and underwear as his other hand slipped out from beneath the hem of his stolen sleepshirt. He cast a sheepish look over his shoulder, mouth stretched into a crooked grin as he caught sight of the advisor stepping out of the tent. His hair was artfully mussed from sleep, glasses missing from their rightful perch atop the bent bridge of his nose. He looked like he’d just rolled out of bed, which, he probably actually had. Prompto’s mind drifted to their sleeping arrangements--Gladio on the far left, Noctis curled up like a cat in his Shield’s right side, Ignis sleeping like a corpse laid gracefully in a coffin on the far right. 

 

Ah. He’d probably noticed the lack of a body to his left. Figures. Prompto had been out of the tent long enough for someone to notice, after all. Late night bathroom breaks were unheard of, but one lasting upwards of what, forty minutes now? Unheard of. Especially considering how attentive Ignis managed to be in his sleep. Somehow.

 

“I-Iggy! Hey,” Prompto gave a quick jerk of his hand in what was supposed to be a wave but probably looked more like aborted flailing. “What are you doing up, man?” Ignis’s sleepy eyes suddenly looked far more alert--and perhaps slightly accusatory--than they had moments ago. Prompto’s grin faltered.

 

“Perhaps I should be asking  _ you _ that question, dear heart,” Ignis started softly, long strides carrying him to the edge of the haven in seconds flat before the advisor perched gracefully besides Prompto. How did he do that? Make everything look so elegant and practiced, even when he’d just been pulled out of sleep? Ignis was the embodiment of fine art and Prompto’s fingers itched for his camera.  _ Well, that’s a much better urge than the other ones I’ve had so far tonight _ . In the light of the full moon, Ignis’s hair almost looked silver, playing off of his beautifully blemished skin--

 

“Prompto?” The gunner jerked to rigid attention at the soft calling of his name. 

 

“Uh, sorry!” The nervous edge creeped back into his tone. One of his hands drifted upwards with the intention to tug at his raw lip again, only to be intercepted by both of Ignis’ (bare, for once) larger hands. Prompto spared a quick glance at their joined fingers before shifting his attention to Ignis’ face. It was a little jarring to see the concern present in his eyes and knowing that it was directed towards himself. “What, uh, what was that again?”

 

“You asked why I was awake, when I’m sure you know the answer to that,” That pulled a weak chuckle from Prompto’s throat, “what I want to know is, what on Eos are you still doing up, darling?” The gunner cast his gaze away, unable to handle the intense look in his lover’s eyes. He shifted in place, drumming the fingers of his free hand against the cool, slightly damp stone of the haven. A weak shrug of a shoulder and the corners of his lips tugged down in a self-deprecating frown.

 

“Haha, y’know. Couldn’t sleep. Thought it would be fun to think of everything and nothing all at once until it just, uh, started sounding like a bunch of those huge, creepy wasps buzzing around in my head?” Another weak chuckle. “Y’know. The usual.” Out of the corner of his eyes, the frown that had been slowly forming on Ignis’s face deepened.

 

“Did anything…?”

 

“Nah, nope, no triggers this time. Just, y’know,” another small shrug, “unmedicated anxiety deciding that right before bed is a perfect time to think about everything ever.” Ignis’s grip tightened. Man, he had nice hands. Smooth, probably from the gloves--some calluses here and there, maybe from cooking, maybe from fighting. Long pianist fingers. Iggy could play the piano, right? Noctis mentioned something about childhood lessons--

 

“Oh, Prompto…”

 

The gunner jerked in Ignis’s gentle grip. Oops. Thoughts got away from him again. Another rambling tangent. His entire night seemed to be made up of those. “Sorry, uh, just--having a little trouble being entirely present right now. Sorry.”

 

“You already said that, dear.”

 

“Sor--”

 

“Prompto.”

 

Prompto nearly bit through his tongue holding back another apology.

 

“Darling, I hate to ask, but I feel as if I should considering what I saw earlier.” Prompto could feel his verdant eyes boring into the side of his head. “Were you picking again?”

 

Prompto deflated. Well, nothing really got passed Ignis, so he wasn’t exactly sure what he’d been expecting. “Uh.” He responded dumbly.

 

Ignis took a deep breath through his nose, probably calculating the best thing to say in this kind of scenario. He always knew what to say. And well, if he didn’t actually know, he at least said something kind enough. Or at least, in the nicest way possible. Least abrasive.

 

“I’m going to assume that perhaps asking you to talk about the problem isn’t the solution here, seeing as the problem itself is nebulous.” At this, Prompto nodded. “And I will not shame you for falling back on habits that I know you are working so hard to curtail. We all have our moments of weakness, or relapses, if you will. All I can do is offer you help whenever you need it, and I’m sure that you know this.” Prompto took a moment to roll Ignis’s words around in his mind before nodding again. “However, if you do need to talk, however aimless it may be, I am here to listen.” The gunner gave himself a moment to think. Did he really want to unload decades worth of insecurities and paranoia onto Ignis, even though those things weren’t really bothering him right now? Did he want to get into his lapses in rationality, in which his bad habits became his most reasonable, easily accessible coping mechanisms, even above the much healthier alternatives his partners had offered him time and time again (which worked, they really did, but  _ there’s something so satisfying about ripping off a crusty piece of skin or pulling out an unnaturally long, dark strand of body hair, did you know that Ignis, did you know how good it feels Ignis _ )? Did he really want to try to put all of his bullshit into words, when all he wanted to do right now--all he really, honestly, wanted to do--was get the hell to sleep and get a decent amount of rest for the night? Especially when Ignis--kind, compassionate, intuitive, loving Ignis, with the dark circles forming beneath his eyes, with his elegant cheekbones looking especially pronounced from strain and exhaustion--needed the rest as much as he did?

 

“Look, Iggy.” Prompto wriggled his hand out of Ignis’s grip to take both of the advisor’s hands in his own. “I really appreciate that you wanna talk this out with me. I appreciate everything you do to help me out, even though I’m sure it’s uh, really not easy. I mean, c’mon, we already got His Royal Sleepiness to deal with constantly, with his very valid and very real chronic pain from the Marilith attack and his depression--”

 

“Which, by no means, invalidates any of your own issues, darling--”

 

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Prompto’s eyes flitted from one thing to the next, unsure of where to focus his gaze, “but uh, what I think I’m trying to get at,” he adds with a chuckle that’s much less nerves and much more self-loathing, “is that maybe right now isn’t a good time to get into it. I mean, I’m sleep deprived, you’re sleep deprived, I’m probably running on fifty different kinds of emotional right now and uh. Maybe we can bench a conversation for this for tomorrow morning when I’ve had a chance to think about what I really need to talk about and how I can talk about it? Not all of us are wordsmiths or, uh, whatever you wanna call it.” Prompto worries his lower lip between his teeth again, at least until Ignis reaches up and tugs it free with the pad of his thumb, leaning forward to steal a gentle kiss.

 

“Of course, dear heart,” He whispers, breath warm against Prompto’s raw lips, “I merely suggested it as an option because I know that talking things out succinctly seems to help you quite often.”

 

“Well, yeah,” Prompto laughs, “when I know exactly what the hell is wrong with my brain,” He can feel his cheeks, naturally flushed and pink from a skin condition he never quite got a handle on, flush a deeper red. This earns him a wry smile and another soft kiss.

 

“A rather unfortunate predicament, that.”

 

“You’re tellin’ me, man.” The two young men fall silent for a moment as more tender kisses are exchanged, the only sound heard being the quiet, wet smack of their lips meeting again and again. At some point, Prompto gasps as Ignis’s tongue runs along the torn seam of his lower lip, and wow, what a hell of a distraction. Diversion? Prompto can’t find himself caring about the word he’s looking for when Ignis seems so adamant about licking all of them out of his mouth. After a few moments of heated kissing, they part for breath.

 

“Perhaps a verbal conversation isn’t what you need, but rather...a conversation of bodies.” Silence falls between them again before Prompto snorts.

 

“Dude.”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Dude, Iggy, that was  _ terrible _ .” Prompto’s shoulders shake with mirth as he buries his face into the crook of Ignis’s neck, heat spreading from his ears to his neck. “Like I’m pretty sure that’s the worst come on I’ve ever heard, and that’s including Gladio’s horrible romance novel pick-up lines.” His fingers are trembling with excitement (or laughter, he’s not entirely sure at this point) as he fists his hands in his lover’s loose shirt. Which is weird because everything Ignis owns fits him so well so maybe he and Ignis have the same opinion on sharing clothes with one’s partners.

 

“But the idea certainly seems to have merit, yes?” Ignis says after a beat, pressing a kiss to his lover’s temple.

 

“...I mean, you’re not wrong.” Prompto spares the tent a glance. “But, uh, the others…”

 

“Could sleep through the second coming of Ifrit--perhaps another Astral War, actually, and you have always had a penchant for being eerily and concerningly quiet in bed,”

 

“But you don’t!! You’re so loud!” Prompto barks out a laugh, earning him a smirk from the delightfully flushed advisor.

 

“Then perhaps we could both use the assistance in being silenced, one way or another.” Ignis’s smirk is playful, but his eyes are gentle. He’s giving Prompto an out, as if this isn’t the best solution Prompto has considered for his problem. In an impressive feat of upper body strength, the gunner heaves Ignis effortlessly to his feet, grinning ear to ear.

 

“Iggy, if anyone’s got the cure for overthinking, it’s you,” Prompto laughs as he tugs his lover towards the tent.

 

And, with a playful glance over his shoulder--

 

“And if anyone knows how to keep you quiet, it’s me.”

**Author's Note:**

> i'm debating on writing a porn-y sequel or additional chapter to this so uh, if anyone's interested, please let me know!!


End file.
